


Once is a Mistake

by DrowningByDegrees



Series: Habit Forming [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, There was not even an attempt at plot, unapologetic pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowningByDegrees/pseuds/DrowningByDegrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time, they blame it on the alcohol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once is a Mistake

 

They blame a little too much alcohol the first time. It’s not the first time, not quite, but it’s the first in so many decades it may as well be. Bucky isn’t even sure that alcohol impacts them much at all these days, but if it lets Steve hang on to the tenuous threads that hold them together, he’ll go with it. 

 

They’re clumsy and ravenous, with memories like murky reflections because they know each other, but not in these bodies, after all this time. Peeling Steve’s tee shirt off is like unwrapping a present, though it’s hard to fully appreciate with their frantic pawing, stumbling through the pitch black living room. Steve’s mouth finds his like it was made to be there though, lips insistently nudging his apart. There’s a tongue curling in his mouth, and Steve still tastes like home, and they way they scrabble at each other, it’s a miracle they reach the couch. 

 

Distantly, Bucky can feel the cushions brush against his calf. He tries to steer them to land properly on it, but Steve’s fingers drag up beneath the hem of his shirt, not remotely subtle. It’s warm and wonderful, and Bucky really doesn’t care that they really don’t make the couch at all. There’s an attempt that ends with his body hitting the edge of a cushion and sliding to the floor like liquid.. The floor is a lot more solid and makes the physical negotiation of all this easier anyway. He nearly laughs when he lands on the carpet, but Steve swallows whatever sound actually escapes him. 

 

With his back against the carpet, Steve’s hands drag along his sides instead, and Bucky can’t really help the way he arches into it. He can’t keep track of anything anymore, but he’s eternally grateful for the collared shirt that Steve is plucking open button by button. His lips are freed up, but that’s a lie, because he only trades kisses for a low, plaintive moan when Steve’s teeth find his throat. For someone who so often comes off like a bit of a prude, Bucky’s best friend certainly knows how to use his mouth. 

 

Friend. Is that the right word? Bucky’s too caught up to care at the moment. He hooks a leg around Steve to draw him closer, hissing at the way their bodies meet. That’s all the urging it takes to make Steve rock against him, groaning against the delicate flesh of Bucky’s throat. 

 

“Oh fuck.” He’s pretty sure he’s the one who says it. Bucky can feel himself coming undone and they haven’t even managed to get out of their trousers. The only thing he’s drunk on is pleasure and friction, and the warm, smooth sensation of Steve’s well muscled back under his palms. He hooks his thumbs in the waist of Steve’s pants, and he keeps meaning to come around and unfasten them, but the way they’re moving keeps thwarting him. It’s the most wonderful thing he’s felt in about seventy years, and as much as Bucky wants to be closer, he really doesn’t want to stop. 

 

Bucky settles for tugging at Steve’s belt loops. It gets the point across, and maybe Steve has a fraction more self control than Bucky does just then, because he stops. It’s agonizing, those seconds where Steve leaves a fraction of space between them, just enough to tug loose the snap of Bucky’s worn out jeans, to drag his fingers teasingly down the zipper. By the time Bucky registers that that’s exactly, but also not remotely what he was going for, there’s a palm wrapped around him through the fabric of his boxers. 

 

“Fuck.” That time it’s definitely him. It’s hard to process anything. Bucky pants and licks his lips, and he tilts his head to try to catch Steve’s lips, but Steve has other ideas. Decades now, and Steve still remembers exactly what he likes… or else it’s sheer dumb luck, but Bucky doesn’t think so. The press of lips and teeth to the junction of his neck and shoulder is hard, almost violent, and it makes his toes curl, hips rolling forward into Steve’s waiting hand. 

 

Vaguely, he’s aware that he probably ought to be a more active participant. He tries, really, but every time he gets close to anything meaningful, Steve just bats him away, or distracts him all over again. It’s less confusing just to give in, to feel something that for once doesn’t hurt. It’s hard to put up with much of a fight when surrender is a warm mouth messily tracing the contours of his chest, and blunt fingers dragging up the inside of his thigh. 

 

Haphazardly, his mismatched palms skim over Steve’s arms and back, but he can’t reach very well with the way Steve keeps getting further away. He murmurs a complaint to that effect, but Steve only responds with an open mouthed kiss to his scarred abdomen, and words spoken so close to his newly damp skin that the warm air makes him shudder. “Let me.”

 

It’s not alcohol. The rate Steve heals, he’s pretty damned certain getting drunk is a challenge. All the same, it’s a confidence he’s not used to, and he doesn’t care what crutch Steve uses to to explain it away, because he  _ likes  _ it. He lifts his hips at the tuneless song of a tug at his clothes, Steve’s blunt nails scraping his hips and thighs as the fabric is dragged down. 

 

He means to say something,he thinks, but it’s lost in the furnace of Steve’s mouth sliding down his length. All that escapes is a whimper. His eyes cross, and it’s all he can do not to jerk forward as his hands find their way to curl in Steve’s hair. They should have turned on the light because he’d give about anything to see a fraction of what’s happening, but heavens can he feel it. Steve’s tongue curls expertly around him, lips working down to the root, and Bucky thinks he might be coming apart at the seams. The way his frantically clenching metal fingers keep catching in Steve’s hair must hurt, but there’s no sign of it, not even a hum of complaint. Steve is relentless, and it’s all Bucky can do to kick the jeans left around his ankles off one of them, so that he can move. It’s only to fold his leg around Steve’s back, steadying himself even as all the threads unravel. 

 

It’s been so long, and it feels so perfect, he can’t possibly be expected to manage for long. If Steve can lean on the alcohol, so can he. Even in the dark, especially in the dark, there are sparks in his periphery. His hips stutter, and he tries to hold off, but Steve knows - the way he always seems to - and takes great pleasure in making control entirely impossible. He can only hope the apartment walls are reasonably thick for the way he cries out. 

 

Only when he’s utterly spent does Steve let him go, pulling back to press a kiss to the crease of his thigh. He feels like his limbs are full of bricks, but… but he manages to make his mouth form words at least, his voice gravelly and slurred in the afterglow. “C’mere.”

 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Steve teases, and oh damn, but he sounds even better in the dark, without all the distractions. Mustering the energy to do so from somewhere, Bucky tugs at Steve, urging him to come a little closer. It works, thankfully, and the moment Steve’s close enough to kiss, Bucky does so, hard and needy despite everything. The taste of Steve’s mouth is punctuated by the slight, bitter tang of come on his tongue, but Bucky only cares because it’s evidence of what they’ve done, and it heats something low in his belly despite how spent he is. 

 

It’s a favor he means to return, and as soon as he can get his limbs to cooperate, Bucky sets to work. It lacks all finesse, and the violent yank of his hands at Steve’s clothes nearly rip them, but he manages to shove Steve’s pants and underwear far enough down his hips to get a better grip. He wastes no time taking advantage, suckling at Steve’s bottom lip, as he drags his palm over his friend’s cock in quick, but indulgent strokes. 

 

The sounds he pulls from Steve are reward enough, but there’s moonlight slanting through the blinds, and Bucky can’t help himself. He releases Steve’s mouth in hopes of catching a glimpse of his face, and though it’s half shrouded in shadow, it’s the loveliest thing Bucky thinks he’s ever seen. Without Bucky occupying his lips, Steve’s open mouthed and panting, the flush of his cheeks only somewhat dulled in the moonlight. 

 

He’s just a touch relieved to find Steve is about as wound up as he was. He likes the name Bucky. He likes it more when it comes out in a pleading sort of whimper, with Steve’s face buried against the column of his throat. He likes it best when it’s accented by a full body tremor that ends with his fingers and stomach hopelessly warm and sticky. 

 

Steve sags with a breathless sort of chuckle that tickles Bucky’s skin. That’s the best sort of familiar. The sheer weight of Steve’s body is different though, and Bucky huffs at the weight, wrapping himself around Steve to roll them onto their sides. Sex is good, but so is breathing, and no matter how very painfully fond he is of Steve, he’d like to keep doing the latter. 

 

Briefly, he considers cleaning up. There’s no telling how they’ll deal with this tomorrow. More than the act itself though, Bucky can’t help but enjoy this, the way Steve curls up with him, all warm skin and a steadily slowing heartbeat. The body may be different, but Steve smells the same. He likes that too, so with his head tucked against Steve’s chest, and Steve’s arms around his back, Bucky lets himself drift to sleep. 


End file.
